Rising
by HappyBirthgrey
Summary: AH - "This is one of his red tantrums, as I often color code them." For Bella, the glory of first love with a short-tempered, sunset-haired composer transforms into a toxic arrangement. This is a story of Bella's rising.
1. Ruby

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****Ruby**  
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Edward's hair is a torrent of flames as he moves through his large living room, shoulders high and tense as he emits a mutely magnificent rage. It is him at his second-most beautiful—trumped only by the passion he exudes when we're physically connected, of course. Not to say that we have been in the last month. It's not that I use sex to punish him, but... our relationship is complicated. If it could be called a relationship at all.

His fists curl and his footsteps are heavy, nearly thunderous.

He loses his easy grace when he's angry like this. Being so commonly fluid in his movements and actions, it's fascinating to see—the loss of a step, the faltering of a breath, the skip of his eyes as he realizes that a wayward shoe has tripped him up in the middle of his million-dollar upper-east side condo. It's like watching a tourist in a foreign country when his expression grows baffled, uncertain as he struggles to make sense of a simple missed footfall. He stares at the shoe, suddenly still as his bare back ripples in indignation. I can see the sinewy expanse between his shoulder blades rise and fall as I dart my eyes between the back of his head and the offending boot.

I want to tell him that it's okay, I trip all the time, usually on nothing but air. Instead, I sit silently as he slowly bends to pick it up, inspecting it with an affronted expression, his jaw rigid and taut as his teeth clench.

Then, with one flick of his wrist, he chucks it out the open window.

He turns to me, impossibly more enraged as he begins, "Why are you doing this to me?"

I laugh because I can't help it. It's so typical of Edward to ask a question like that. After all, the world does revolve around him in a steady, melodic orbit.

At the sound of my cold chuckle, he takes a quick step forward, muscles flexing as he spits, "Fucking laughing at me? That's rich. Fucking rich."

Well, he hasn't _really_ raised his voice.

Yet.

"I'll be sure to tell my dad to plan his next gun shot wound around your performance schedule," I respond dryly, wholly incapable of biting back my sarcasm and… hurt.

I am hurt.

Truth be told, I expected this reaction from him. He's grown so accustomed to people making him comfortable, has been conditioned to believe that his dreams and goals are the pinnacle of the universe, to never be meddled with. Everyone is expected to accommodate his every need in relation to his talents. His parents have coddled and accepted his outrageous temper tantrums since he was nothing but a child, and now, I reap the consequences.

_Thank you, Esme._

Of course, only I can be blamed for putting up with it.

"I ask one thing of you. Just one thing. Shit, it's not really much is it? Is it?" he asks belligerently while resuming his stomping across the carpet. His hands go to his hair and begin pulling and yanking and his nose wrinkles and his jaw hardens and I know… it won't be long before the yelling begins. "I'm fucked. You fucked me, you just…" And then he stops and whirls on me and his face is red and this is _it_.

My back stiffens in anticipation, blood thrumming through my veins and tapping at my skin like he's trapped a hummingbird beneath my flesh.

The way in which he bends his body to hurl the scream at my face is a distorted, malicious thing. His stomach clenches to project it outward and his eyes are fixed to mine, completely unabashed as they dance and smolder in fury. He explodes, jamming his index finger to his chest, "You _fucked_ me!"

I sigh and retrieve my magazine from his leather cushion, flipping open to some random article that I'm only pretending to be absorbed in. I've grown proficient at hiding the tremors in my hands. "I could be fucking you right now if you weren't being such an epic dickhead," I retort, feigning flippancy.

Inside, my chest burns, and I ignore it.

I consider myself an expert in these tantrums. I know that being hurt and offended and teary-eyed is the wrong way to react. It's much like giving a child attention when they scream for it, kicking their feet against the floor and shrieking as if physically injured when you know damn well they aren't. _Unacceptable_. It's better to ignore it for the time being, to remain cool-headed and let him vent it out, throw insults at me, scream to his throat's malcontent, until the flame in his eyes flickers and dulls and he realizes just how much of an ass he's being.

Later, he'll be groveling and apologizing and burying his head in my stomach and promising that he only acts this way because he needs me so badly. He'll tell me to save myself, to leave him behind and find someone who can treat me the way I deserve to be treated. He'll tell me to finally jump off the fence that divides love and hate and loathe him for what he can't be.

I won't put out for at least two months.

We have a pattern, see.

"Ha-fucking-ha, Bella. Ha ha! Ha ha! Bella made a joke! Ha ha!" He is screaming to no one in particular and I can see his roadblock. He's unable to argue his point any further in that one moment and it shows in the darkening of his eyes, the click of his teeth.

Hence, I'm completely unsurprised to hear the flat thudding of knuckles against skull. I inwardly wince but remain composed as I flip another page. My eyes only dart to him once to catch the blur of his fist contacting with his flushed temple.

This is one of his red tantrums, as I often color code them in my memory. Else, it would be impossible to keep track.

He won't cause physical harm to anything but himself when in his red mood. The first time I witnessed him punching himself in the head, I was terrified and confused and worried. The fifth time, I nearly laughed. The twentieth time I witnessed it, I considered giving him a helmet for Christmas.

Now, I just wait it out and stay until I'm certain he hasn't knocked himself into unconsciousness—which only happened that one time last year, but is still entirely possible.

His favorite ass to kick has always been his own.

He's not always this bad. Truthfully, when he isn't in a mood, he's the most charming, perfect, sweetest, most caring and compassionate person I know. Anger simply invades him like a sickness, poisoning his words and actions and cutting stares. I take the bad because the good is worth it and I'm acclimated enough to know that he doesn't _really_ mean to treat me like this.

"Get out," he eventually orders, panting in exertion and red as he towers over me. His forehead and temples are bearing the marks of his knuckles—little raised bumps on pale skin.

I glance up at him through my lashes and close my magazine, locking gazes with his furious eyes as I lift myself. I flatten my palm to his bare and fevered chest, ignoring his flinch as he stares down at me with disgust.

"You fucked me," he repeats in a hiss, shoving his finger at the door.

I let my hand inch over his hot flesh, dragging it down until I reach his belt loop. And then I yank him to me, putting my lips to the patch of throat I can reach without looking up. "I forgive you for acting like this, and… _I love you,_" I promise against his skin and feel his abdomen loosen just barely.

He will not say it back, and we both know it.

He's looking away, eyes down as he visibly struggles to maintain his anger at my hasty departure. I can discern the dark twinge of shame in his hard frown—whether at his behavior, or at my declaration, I can't say. But his red fury has mellowed to a fierce gold, and I know that it's as over as it'll get.

"Good luck with the concert. Rose is going with her phone so I'll be able to hear it. You'll be perfect because you're the best fucking performer they've ever seen."

I don't bother giving him time to respond before I leave.

I know better.

Gold is silent.

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Forks is just like I always remember it and I feel myself slowly unwinding as I'm driven by taxi toward the little hospital to see Charlie. The lush greenery is unexpectedly soothing and I get the sense of being transported back in time to an awkwardly quiet teenager.

I haven't changed much. I still prefer the quiet and the dark and remaining solitary because people are loud and untrustworthy. I prefer to see my life as _Point A_ to _Point B_ and the straight line that connects the two, always steady and fluid and simple. College was my ticket out of the rainy confines of the town, and I was elated to go somewhere different for a change.

Chicago was different, all right. Maybe it was colder than I was used to, windier, and a little more crowded, but none of that really sticks out in regards to my freshman year there.

Edward Cullen somehow became my embodiment of Chicago and college in general. I reminisce of our time together before everything fell apart—back when we had a real relationship instead of this bitter, unspoken agreement. It makes me smile. I like remembering the good things. My first memory of him is etched into my memory with such flawless clarity that I can still recall the thick clouds of smoke escaping his mouth as he leaned against the brick wall of the campus bookstore, cigarette hanging from his lips while he stared apathetically out onto campus.

I remember thinking how remarkably similar his hair was to the sunset—all orange and rays of light shining through auburn. He looked out of place, but somehow, the location bent and suited to his image and he complimented his surroundings, made them seem as if they were far more elegant than they actually were.

I was so distracted by staring that my haphazard parking resulted in a minor thud, a jerk of my truck, and a sudden snap of his sunset head.

When I finally got the nerve to exit my cab, he proceeded to call me a "_Fucking dumb ass freshman bitch_," and lost his shit, right between our respective vehicles. I broke down into tears in the middle of the student-parking area as he hurled insults at me, merciless in his fury while his eyes surveyed the minor damage to his silver car.

I'd only been in town for three weeks and was still new to the area and the whole concept of being away from home. I had no friends, no family, no money, and the courses I'd chosen had proved more difficult than I'd anticipated. It was the darkest moment I could ever recall having. I was so _alone_. And this stranger—handsome and seething—was snarling at my cowering form and calling me names. Kicking me while I was so far down.

I scribbled down my dorm number and insurance policy with trembling hands, the ink bleeding in fat circles when it caught my tears. Then I threw it at him with another futile apology and left as quickly as my ancient truck would allow.

The next night found me at the small school auditorium. I was still in the dumps from the previous day and wanted to get out, do something fun, and remind myself that Chicago was the best place to be. After all, Forks' version of a piano recital and Chicago's were vastly different. I was struggling to see the glass as half full.

The performance wasn't my thing, really, and if it hadn't been for all the buzz about some student musical prodigy performing, I likely would have skipped it. But it was my last ditch effort to try and find something that might lift my spirits, so I dressed as nicely as my wardrobe would allow and set off to the middle of campus.

I arrived ten minutes late, just in time to see the pianist take the stage as I swung the heavy door open. When my eyes landed on the figure beneath the bright lights, a familiar shade of sunset, I gasped and released the latch.

The door shut too loudly behind me, echoing in the silence as he took his bench. It was only _his_ eyes that darted to mine, for the briefest of moments. And then he was playing—if you could use that mediocre word to describe such a thing. I took my seat, incapable of reconciling the haggard and abrasive stranger who'd cussed me out with this man in a tuxedo, perfectly groomed and playing piano like it was an extension of his fingertips.

There were no words for when he played.

It didn't look effortless and he wasn't serene. Quite the contrary. He threw his entire being into the piece, even the ends of each tousled lock of hair seeming to move and furl to its melody. His breathing was heavy, forehead sparkling with sweat as he moved in sharp, yet graceful sways.

When he finished, bowing with a stand of applause, his green eyes searched the seats and eventually landed on mine, lingering for much too long to be unintentional. And then one corner of his lips twitched upward, so tiny a gesture that I was certain few caught it. Me - I captured the sight and locked it away in a distant mental vault, excited for the moment that I'd be able to study it in solace.

When he left the stage, my face turned red, and I realized that I hadn't even remembered to clap. I fled the building and went to my dorm, not at all surprised when haunting melodies, cigarette smoke, green eyes, and hissed expletives colored my dreams.

A week later, I got my very first visitor, and was shocked to open my door to the man with sunset hair, looking sheepish and guilty and downright glorious. Stunned as I was to see him standing there, in ripped jeans and a ratty shirt, I felt a surge of wary excitement. What a good first visitor to have.

"So… you probably already know this, but I'm Edward Cullen, music student, Volvo owner, and utter jackass…" He smiled ruefully and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, looking particularly impish as he peeked at me through his lashes_._ I introduced myself and then he leaned to one side of my doorway, piercing me intensely with his stare as he uttered, "Come get some coffee with me."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

We spent five hours talking over our steaming cups and his smile was as effective as his anger. He was a junior, a fact that made me more than a little nervous as I grasped my cup and stared into its contents, too nervous to meet his eyes. He had to have been experienced and he was obviously out of my league.

Afternoon turned to evening as he held me hostage under his stare and series of questions. He asked me ridiculous things, like my favorite color and band and subject and zodiac sign. My scarce attempts to ask my own questions weren't necessarily evaded, but he was always quick to turn the attention back to me.

I was baffled by his interest, occasionally flushing and waiting for the moment he realized that he was wasting his precious time talking to the most plain and boring person he'd ever willingly meet.

"Shit," he suddenly cursed, lifting his hips and patting his pockets. Green eyes met mine as he proclaimed, "I left my insurance shit at my place," settling with a scowl that swiftly transformed into a secret grin. He licked his lips and my eyes followed the gesture, entranced as they parted and he spoke through pearly white teeth, "Come with me to get it."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

His "place" was an enormous apartment with a city skyline view and more glass than my entire dorm building. I don't remember our conversation as we stood in his entryway, his dark eyes fixed to mine as he twirled his keyring around one of his long, nimble fingers. Whatever mindless drivel escaped our lips was forcedly casual and buzzing with a tense anticipation.

He didn't seem nervous or apprehensive and never even mentioned insurance information. Instead, he took a step toward me, finally allowing me to catch a strong whiff of his musky scent and faint traces of cigarette smoke. I relished the exact moment he invaded my personal space, my internal alarms sounding immediately before subsiding to a deep throbbing of foreign arousal.

He moved as close as he could possibly get without actually touching me. His brows furrowed slightly before he stammered, "This is a little... I can't _not_..." He just didn't strike me as a man who would stammer and I watched his lips, his breath colliding with my face. He finished in a breath, "I have to kiss you."

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

His lips descended to mine slowly, while his hand simultaneously curled around my chin, tipping my face upwards to him. A gentle and warm press of his pillowy mouth against my own was interrupted by his thumb, sliding between us in a soft attempt to part my lips. He kept his eyes open, locked on mine until I responded, separating my mouth around the pad of his thumb.

And then all at once, we were feral, his movements and intensity leading my own. The crackle between us ignited as hands sought hair and necks and fistfuls of shirt fabric. He pushed me backwards and I was _aching_, nails digging into his shoulders as our hissed breathing escaped our nostrils. His shoulders were solid and heavy beneath my palms, his body unforgiving as it pressed to mine. I'd never felt anything like it, this consumption.

Truthfully, I couldn't believe he'd kissed me, was still in limbo between shock and giddiness to really grasp that… _he was _still_ kissing me_. And then we hit a door and his hips pressed into mine and he was hard, and I couldn't believe that _I_ could do that to _him_.

His hands gripped my waist and he finally left my mouth, only to trace his moist tongue up my jaw to my ear. I was gasping for air, tugging his shoulders closer, as my legs seemed to vibrate with tremors.

"My bedroom," he huskily declared, turning a doorknob and hurling us backward into the large, darkened room.

It wasn't a question.

I wouldn't have said no.

He took off my clothes because I was just so damned off-kilter and had no idea what was going on. It felt like my brain was still standing in that obnoxiously large living room, enjoying the skyline at sunset, while my body was unwrapped, lying exposed, panting, and flushed on his four poster bed.

It was so quick, no sweet kisses or prolonged foreplay or teasing.

He reached for his belt buckle and fumbled it loose. "You are just… so fucking soaked…" he remarked excitedly, eyes glued between my legs as he wrestled himself free of his pants. He seemed so focused on the task, and I was thankful because my limbs moved in slow motion, clouded and listless. I didn't have any time to admire him before he began sliding thin latex down his shaft. He didn't even remove his shirt. Then he was between my legs, nudging them farther apart and burying his face into my neck as he settled between my parted thighs.

His soft grunt was only a mere afterthought to the sharp pain that pierced me. Everything curled inward, my legs instinctively attempting to close as I stiffened, hissing and sinking my nails into the flesh of his rippling back.

I resented his deep, throaty and strained chuckle. "Wow, that's really just..." He gasped into my ear, retreating and thrusting gently as I turned my head to hide my abrupt tears. "Shoulda used my fingers first?" And then his lips kissed and nipped at my neck and I burned and stung and ground my teeth and was so grateful that he never lifted his head to see my tears. I held his neck tightly so he wouldn't.

When his gentle thrusts began growing faster and harder, I whined, my legs trembling as I tried to overcome the pain of the intrusion. It was like poking a finger repeatedly into an opened cut. It felt wrong and I was panicked, just hoping it would _please_ _end soon_.

Misunderstanding my whimper, he breathed a tight, "God... yes, baby... _fuck_," and then began pumping into me in earnest, my soft cries, muffled by his shoulder, only spurring him on.

This ended up being fortunate, however, because within seconds, he was crying out into my skin, fingertips pressing against my scalp. He buried himself deeply and began nuzzling and writhing and gasping. When he stilled, hovering precariously over me and emitting hard breaths, I quickly brought my hand to my face and swiped away my tears before he could see.

I was so happy it was over.

When he rolled off of me, his face was relaxed, eyes closed as I snapped my legs shut and tried to copy his euphoric expression, offhandedly.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he lifted one eyelid, glancing at me sideways. "Jesus, that was the best fuck I've had all year," he complimented. Then he reached for his bed side table and produced a cigarette, adding, "Did I get you off? Shit, I can never tell. I'm not usually so… quick—" He paused as he regarded me, his unlit cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. "What?" he asked dully.

_Best fuck I've had all year…_

God, I was some junior asshole's weekday fuck. To say I was devastated would have been a gross underestimate of my overly dramatic tendencies.

He appeared flummoxed as he raked his fingers through his hair, promising uncertainly, "I can still... get you off?" And then he reached for the condom still attached to his softening member, soiled with blood.

His face went bone-white, cigarette falling from his lips as he carefully removed the latex, staring at it with a horrified expression. "No fucking way," he breathed, suddenly lurching up and placing himself between my legs, forcing them open as he gaped wide-eyed.

I tried to force my knees closed, but his grip was too strong and I was just… so, so humiliated. My face was on fire, the throbbing of my loins the only sensation intense enough to break through the fog of my mortification.

He met my gaze and snapped, "You're a virgin? Why didn't you tell me!" He flung himself away quickly, as if my skin had burned him.

I explained weakly, "I-it was s-so quick, and… and… I wasn't thinking." I scrambled for the blanket, flinging it over myself as his eyes still remained fixed on the junction between my thighs, even after I'd obscured it.

But that was a lie.

I'd known exactly what I was doing, too embarrassed to admit to this amazing man that I was inferior and unwanted and had never been touched like that before. It didn't even seem possible to lose my virginity to anyone better than this Edward Cullen. He was gorgeous and perfect and rich and talented and… I lost my virginity to perfection. What could there be to regret?

"Sorry," I whispered, tears threatening to once again spill over as I looked down and hid my shamed face with my veil of hair.

"You're sorry?" he choked after a moment of pregnant silence. "_You're_ sorry? Oh God, I didn't… if I'd known…" He trailed off and I finished for him.

"...you wouldn't have even invited me over."

It wasn't a question.

And he didn't say no.

Sore and suddenly sick, my shaking hands searched blindly for the clothes that his previously eager hands had scattered over his bed and floor. I couldn't meet his stare as I stood, still trying to cover myself as I slid on my underwear and sank my teeth into my lip to restrain my pained hiss.

He didn't speak until I began pulling on my jeans, teetering on the edge of hysterics. When he did, it was a rushed and pleading, "Wait. Please stay." I heard the shifting of the mattress of he stood, and then felt his hands on my hips and I froze. "Stay," he repeated, urgent.

And because I knew why he was asking me to stay, I answered cuttingly, "All this guilt is really unnecessary," and continued dressing myself. When I turned, my head was still downcast and my eyes immediately landed on his naked groin. I gulped, raising my eyes to his chest.

"I would have asked you to stay regardless," he insisted, soft and sincere and maybe even a little offended. I drew my eyebrows together skeptically as I slowly met his gaze. I didn't know him well enough to discern whether or not he was being honest, but his gentle, "Promise," was nearly enough to convince me. Only when he stepped closer and put his lips to mine once again, whispering, "I really like you, really need you to not leave," did I truly believe him.

So I stayed.

"I've never taken anyone's virginity before," he admitted, finally lighting that cigarette after he'd slid on his underwear and settled next to me on his bed. He looked to me uncertainly and exhaled a large plume of smoke, wondering aloud, "I feel like I should give you a fucking pamphlet or something." I laughed and the sound seemed to make his eyes brighten, his lips twitching upward as he continued, "Or a high five. I haven't decided yet."

But then his smile fell and he just looked sad. "I was too rough and fast and… Shit, I hurt you." His eyes widened and he held his hands out, as if to touch me, even though they merely lingered over my shoulders. Then in a panicked voice, cigarette filter bouncing as he spoke, he worried, "Are you okay? Should I… do you need a shower… or… a doctor? Oh, God. Do you need to go to the hospital?" The pitch of his voice rose, alarm covering his expression as he reached, then pulled away, then reached again, never touching, but obviously wanting to comfort me, without knowing how.

I snorted a laugh. And then I was doubled over in laughter, hiding my wince as I guffawed loudly.

Ignoring his alarmed expression, I managed to chuckle out, "I don't think my insurance covers painful loss of hymen, but thanks anyway." He rolled his eyes, obviously deducing that if my condition was good enough for sarcasm, then I was likely fine. "It hurt like hell, okay? But it's no big deal. In a few days, it'll be like nothing ever happened," I assured, shrugging and still embarrassed and really hoping that I was wrong about that.

"Good," he exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. "Christ, I probably scarred you for life. I swear sex is usually really good. If you would have given me the chance, I would have made it more enjoyable," he grumbled, slightly perturbed.

"Sorry," I apologized again, ducking my head.

After a moment, I felt his finger slipping under my chin, lifting my eyes to his. He grinned mischievously, sliding closer to me and brushing his lips against my cheek. "Next time will be better," he promised, pulling me down to lie next to him. I stared into his eyes for an indefinite amount of time, savoring his sunset hair and the sensations of his fingertips gliding over my bare ribs.

It wasn't a question and I didn't say no.

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**A/N: **Thank to FrenchBeanz for beta. Six Chapters total. Happy Birthday, Jes!


	2. Obsidian

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Obsidian  
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The hospital waiting room is abuzz with uniformed officers, all of them riled up and pissed off. Anger and tension rolls off of them as they wait for Charlie to return from surgery. They all drink coffee and attend to my needs like a withered old widow. They don't take something like this lightly. Having one of their own shot in the line of duty is the worst offense a criminal could make to the precinct. They're out for blood, each of them making the occasional, hostile comment about what they'll do when they catch the perpetrators.

My head is throbbing and I stretch my body out along three empty chairs, all of the officers too anxious to seat themselves. I allow the memory of the days following my first sexual encounter to lift my spirits, a welcomed smile gracing my lips as I close my eyes and block out all of the black and blue and silver shields surrounding me.

With the way Edward treated me following that evening, my roommate was beginning to think I'd come down with some kind of terminal cancer. He came to my room the next night with soup—"Because soup makes everything feel better," he'd explained—prescription pain medication, muscle rub, bubble bath, and quite shockingly, a flower.

It looked suspiciously like the ones planted in the middle of campus.

He took me to classes the next day, and then the next day, and then the day after that. He kept touching the small of my back, helping me walk, even if it was only a couple steps, and he constantly inquired, "How are you feeling?" It was annoying, but also sweet, so I only put up a minimal protest when he kept barking at people, "She doesn't feel well! Move the fuck out of her way!" He carried my bag from and to my truck whenever we met after classes, always at his insistence.

I had this nagging feeling that he was only granting me the privilege of his attentions because of his guilty conscience. My misgivings were impossible to quell. I still saw him as unattainable, beautiful and talented and glowing and sauntering up to _my _truck. I wondered when the other shoe was going to drop.

He never kissed me or acted particularly intimate, though he was always a perfect gentleman. He oddly held doors open for me, would steer me away from puddles, and even offered me his jacket if it began raining. It was impossible to understand what we were, or what he even wanted. His guilt was the only thing that made any sense whatsoever.

An afternoon voicemail message that he eventually left asking me to dinner made me decide to come clean. I went back to the scene of the crime, knocked on his door, and didn't even say hello when he answered it, instead swiftly absolving him of all guilt. I admitted that I'd intended to lose my virginity that day and had purposely tricked him into taking it. And then I pointed out that I was completely healed and he could stop coddling me. Too afraid of his eventual rejection to stay any longer, I made to turn and leave, accepting that our time had likely expired.

It was like being punched in the stomach.

But then he yanked my back to his chest and I swayed into his warm body, stiffening and yet melting into him all at once. His breath was hot and quick in my ear as he asked, "You're not hurt anymore?" At my puzzled and dizzy affirmation, he sighed, pressing his crotch into my ass. "Thank fucking Jesus, baby. I've been dying to touch you again..."

And then he made good on that promise to show me just how good sex could be.

Afterward, he chastised me for thinking he'd just cast me away after I felt better. It was the first time I'd ever witnessed one of his red moods, save for that one time in the parking lot beside his dinged Volvo bumper. His fists hit his temples and he swore and growled and he was fierce and glorious and... we did the sex thing again.

And again.

And again.

We could barely keep our hands off each other after that day, finding creative ways of maintaining skin contact at all times: a pinky dipped under a waistband, a toe shoved up a pant leg, a nose pressed into a warm neck.

He'd order takeout or pizza and have it waiting for me at his apartment when classes were over for the day. It seemed routine and whenever he picked me up, he'd greet me with a searing, breathtaking kiss that usually led to pre-dinner sex and post-sex dinner. Edward liked sex. A lot. I certainly wasn't complaining.

He also liked taking care of me, and after observing his obviously extravagant lifestyle, I figured he'd always had people spoil him and wanted to feel the rush and gratitude of doing it for someone else. So even though I didn't necessarily like it when he offered to drive me around campus or buy me food or books or a cell phone (just in case I ever found myself in a bind), I kept mum about my distaste for being catered to. Because something in his eyes when he took care of me and heard my guilty "Thank you," made him glow in the most beautiful way.

Autumn turned to winter, and the icy storms and snow-covered grounds of campus made for perfect snuggling weather. We ultimately went out to lunches and dinners and eventually began studying together when I stayed over at nights. Well, mostly studying. Okay.. not _much_ studying. We grew freakishly close over the next three months. He eventually told me all about his parents, the surgeon and the philanthropist, and his siblings, the designer and the law student.

The 'honeymoon' phase of our relationship was perfect, just like him.

He was passionate when he talked about music, always growing animated and fervent as he spoke of composing. He once explained it to me, his head resting in my lap, eyes wide and enthusiastic as I caressed his hair, "Composing is like… creating this collection of sounds from the depths of your soul and finding out that stringing the right ones together can make something that isn't as ugly as you feel." And I couldn't comprehend how Edward could ever feel ugly, so I weaved my fingers through his hair and told him so. I also couldn't comprehend having a talent like that, creating anything from the depths of my soul. So instead, I just sat beside him on his piano bench and lived vicariously through his craft.

When Edward performed, he wanted me there. At first, he was simply excited to share his creations with me, in that formal and ideal setting. I always went and he never needed to ask, even though he usually did anyway, more often than not, a little sheepish.

But I missed one.

It was during the holidays and I'd gone home to Forks for the weekend, unable to attend.

He was so excited as he spoke to me on the phone the night before, explaining the numerous big names that would be attending for the sole sake of seeing him perform. He was fervent and thrilled and kept talking until I was too tired to keep my eyes open.

The next night, after a dozen or so phone calls and smiles and laughter and joy and anxiety, he played. He played to a full crowd and I hated that I wasn't able to be there to see it, because I figured he was likely magnificent, as always.

But he hadn't been.

I never discovered exactly what happened or how badly he'd played, but when I arrived home, his sister called me, begging, "Don't go over there, okay? Just… leave him be for a couple days." Alice and I had only spoken a couple times over the phone, usually as I was passing it off to Edward, so to get her cryptic warning unnerved and worried me.

I was still trying to familiarize myself with his moods as I mulled over Alice's words, having seen the red and gold frequently. I figured I'd seen the worst that day he'd knocked himself out, so pissed off about his midterm grade that he was beyond calming down.

But red was nothing. It was only a mild tantrum in which he used vulgarity as his weapon, and his fists as a self-punishing outlet for rage. Red was no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Red was petty and trivial.

Black made red look like fucking sunshine.

"Miss Swan?" I'm pulled out of my musings by a soft voice, a nurse smiling gently as she informs, "The chief is in recovery. Would you like to see him now?"

Five heads snap to me, expressions seeping with worry and anguish as the present officers speak to me with their stares, "_You do your part and we'll do ours._"

So I stop thinking of Edward and red and gold and black and march determinedly to Charlie's bedside. I cradle his calloused hand in mine carefully, avoiding the I.V. as I gaze at him, anxious and lost. It isn't right. I'd always seen Charlie as invincible. He's the man that checked my closet for monsters and scared away the neighborhood boys who picked on me. He's the law in my eyes, not just one tiny portion or tool of it. And now he's lying here, broken and vulnerable, and it _isn't fucking right._

He is sleeping, obviously knocked out from the pain medication, so I pull up a chair and collapse into it, trying to come to terms with this newfound discovery that nothing is every truly invincible. Not me, not Edward, not even Charlie.

The fragility of life and love draws sobs from my chest, and later, when the officers have finagled their way into the room, I'm still sobbing over his hand, mourning the loss of security and people that haven't even passed yet. They each grasp my shoulder, one at a time, as they visit in silence. Their unified strength is somehow contagious, and I've never been so conflicted—so enraged at my father's career and simultaneously, overwhelmingly grateful for the bonds he's made and the hope it gives me.

Maybe something in this world _is _invincible.

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"So then I'm on a foot pursuit with the sum'bitch, northbound into that new subdivision, and I'll be goddamned if the Mallory's little shit-poodle doesn't start chasing him…" Charlie is laughing, all doped up while the other officers listen at his bedside, enraptured by the tale of his pursuit.

I'm smiling. And not only because Charlie thinks every dog under fifteen pounds with long hair is a poodle (the Mallory's have a shitzhu, not a 'shit-poodle'), but because he is perfectly fine. I continue watching his bright eyes as he recants the entire experience, five bodies huddled around him like a pack of wolves, and him their Alpha.

It's the most excitement this town's seen since Tyler Crowley nearly ran me over with his van in the Forks High School parking lot. Charlie is clearly enjoying being the town hero, even though I know for certain that he isn't very comfortable being in the spotlight.

The gunshot wound to his left, upper-thigh will heal, and he'll be left with an exciting scar, but thankfully, retirement won't be necessary. I just don't know what he'd do with all the free time if he were permanently disabled. La Push's fish population would dwindle to nothing.

I wait until he's at the climax of the story, everyone perched on the edge of their proverbial seats, before I clear my throat and stand. "Okay, fellas. I think he could use some rest now." They all groan and shoot me playful glares, but Charlie winks at me. I've interrupted at this exact point so that they'll come back this evening.

When they all depart, I'm left alone, sitting with Charlie and enjoying our time together, even if the circumstances are less than desirable. I ask him about the house and La Push and Billy and Sue and Jacob, who I haven't seen since graduation. He tells me I should fly back, that he's fine and there's nothing to worry about, but I wave him off. It's nice to spend time with him, to feel as though I'm home again. But I can't deny the swelling of shame in my chest for the events last year as I watch him talk. It gnaws at me steadily, this question in my mind, wondering how I'd been so quick to leave him behind...

The day progresses in a routine of vital-recording, injections, bandage changes, and eventually, television. He falls asleep while watching the game, a true credit to the strength of his pain killers, and when the officers return, he's well rested and ready to talk again.

That's when I give him a kiss on the forehead and finally leave the hospital, one of the cruiser owners giving me a ride to my childhood home. It is dark and familiar and I rush upstairs at once to call Rosalie because Edward goes on stage in thirty minutes and I _have_ to speak to him.

"I'm going to kill the motherfucker," Rose answers immediately.

I roll my eyes. "Well, hello to you too."

"Seriously, Bella. I just need to decide how. Something slow and painful and… _damn it, Em_. If he breaks that fucking mirror…"

I exhale loudly, listening to the faint conversation held in the room she's in. I don't hear Edward, so I ask for him, unable to hide the tense apprehension in my voice.

"Now might not be a good time…" Rose hedges.

"Whatever little tantrum he's throwing right now is nothing," I reply darkly, and her intake of breath is proof that Alice has told her of that morning, nearly a year ago. Proof that she understands, if he messes up tonight, it will be far worse.

"I don't know how you put up with this," she whispers, but it isn't a question, and it isn't annoyance.

It's sad and piteous.

I have no way to respond to her pity, so I remain quiet until I'm certain that she's passing the phone off to him. I don't know how it works. I have no idea if me simply being on the phone to listen is enough for him. I can't predict if it will be as bad as last time.

But I'm ready for it.

"What?" Edward answers. The tightness in his voice betrays his anxiety and I know, above all, he is simply nervous of failing. I know doing so before a crowd of people is his greatest fear of all. One he's already lived before.

So I tackle that first. "You're going to be so perfect, Edward," I say, entirely sincere, though on the inside, I am completely freaking out. "I'm going to be right here, listening. Just imagine me in the front row, okay?"

His scoff resembles a whimper. "That's never going to work and you know it." His voice is high and keening, and not quite a whine, but very nearly. It makes my chest throb. And then he is swearing at someone in the background and his voice cracks, shaky as he speaks to me, "I have to go."

I blink back my tears of frustration, whispering a final, "My dad's alive. Thanks for asking," before the line goes dead.

And then I wonder, much like Rosalie, how I put up with this.

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"God, he looks nervous," Rose whispers gently into the phone and I can hear clapping subside as she narrates softly, "He's taking the bench. I swear he's going to have pit stains." But her tone isn't mocking, it is fascinated.

Few people have ever seen Edward as anything but wholly self-assured.

When the beginning notes of his piece begin floating through to my ear, I grip my comforter, splayed out on my bed as I listen with rapt attention. I've heard him rehearse this for months, have memorized every dulcet note and nuance. I know that it will last for only three minutes and fifteen seconds. I am acquainted with the dip in melody from something sweet, to something dark and ominous, transforming into something livid and fierce, and then finally, fading to conflict and a bitter air of helplessness.

It's his soul, personified in melody.

I imagine his fingers flying over the keys, the sway of his hair as he rocks to his motions, the bounce of his knees as his feet seek the peddles below, and the vision is flawless.

But the sound is _not_.

My blood runs frigid and I'm frozen solid as I listen to his quick recovery, knowing that he'd missed a key. Dread encases my heart and I slump against my bedding, closing my eyes and willing him to just… ignore it.

Rose says nothing, and I can't be certain if she even realizes that singular error, but it doesn't matter.

The damage is done.

When the music ceases, there is thunderous applause. I can imagine them all standing. I can see him bow in my mind's eye, eyes flitting perhaps to the phone in Rosalie's hand. I can feel the cold clamminess of his palms as he wipes them against his pants, the mat of his hair as it sticks to his sweaty forehead. I can see the limpness of his step as he turns.

I can see how dead his eyes are.

_Four._

He made four errors.

"Thank God that's over with," Rose rambles, but I'm not really listening. "The after-party is the only good thing to come out of these. Oh! Esme and Carlisle are waiting, so I'll call you later, okay?" She hangs up before I can warn her, though I'm not certain I should.

The atmosphere of my room is now heavy and suffocating. I consider calling Edward's cell to leave a message, but I know it's futile. I know that he'll be beyond a simple talking-to. I'm suddenly grateful to be so many miles away from him. I can't see Edward when he's in his black mood, have made promises in the past, to both Alice and Edward himself, to stay away.

The only other time I'd ever missed his performance, I defied Alice and went to his apartment, aching to comfort him and help however I could. His car was parked in its usual location outside, so I was certain he'd be home. I'd brought his Christmas gift with me—a simple, antique metronome—and had it shoved under my arm as I climbed the steps and rapped on his door.

He didn't answer.

Concerned, I kept knocking, and when it still went unanswered, I let myself in, only minimally surprised to find the door unlocked.

He was sitting at his small, oval kitchen table, head bowed and a tall bottle of brown liquor before him, half-emptied. The heavy, silver links of his discarded wrist watch made a deep scraping sound as he twirled it around his fingertip over the wood. He was still wearing most of his tuxedo, the bow hanging loosely around his neck and the jacket hung over his chair-back. The sight before me seeped defeat and despondency and I was stunned, frozen in place in the doorway as I watched him and listened to the silver scrape and drag.

His hair was greasy and matted to his head, the sunset a sudden midnight. "Ho ho ho," he whispered an eventual acknowledgment to me, head tilting infinitesimally to the side. Then, without halting the twirling of his watch, he lifted the bottle to his lips, murmuring, "Merry Christmas, baby," before taking a long swig of it.

"What happened?" I asked when I found my voice, still standing limp and motionless in the doorway.

One side of his mouth tilted upward into a bitter smile as he answered dully, "No, no, Bella. You're supposed to say 'Merry Christmas' back to me. It's custom." And then he finally met my gaze, the scraping of the watch coming to an abrupt stop.

I'd never seen anyone look so empty.

"Take a seat," he ordered softly, kicking the chair across from him from beneath the table.

I walked to it numbly, falling into it without really paying attention to where I landed. "Edward, you're scaring me," I said, because truly, he was.

One of his shoulders pulled up into a loose shrug and he replied, "We all fear that which we don't understand, but that's not the point." He hadn't been sleeping and his jaw was dark, gruff. He was dirty and the smell of liquor and cigarettes was so strong that it permeated the space between us.

"What _is_ the point?" I whispered, the sudden silence feeling somehow delicate.

At this, he began to straighten, sliding the watch aside and leaning forward so that his hair obstructed his eyes. "Dependency is the point," he answered. "Do you depend on me?"

Furrowing my brows in confusion, I responded weakly, "In a way, I guess."

He nodded faintly. "Because you 'love' me?" His voice wrapped around the word with a serpentine and venomous inflection that made my face flame in embarrassment.

I swallowed, feeling somehow much smaller as I sat in his chair, darting my eyes around the kitchen uncertainly.

"Yes."

I'd only just said it days prior, right before I'd driven away from his apartment to the airport. I'd been disappointed that we wouldn't be spending our first Christmas together. I'd initially been saving the words to say at a special moment, but I'd been so emotional about leaving him and had figured he might have enjoyed the sentiment.

He would have appeared less stunned had I told him I'd grown a second vagina.

I'd told him I didn't want to hear it back, and so he hadn't replied, and I'd gone to Forks a little downtrodden about the whole ordeal, had cursed myself for not waiting longer. I figured it'd come back to bite me in the ass. This was probably that moment.

He hummed, seemingly contemplative as his hand disappeared to his lap. He shuffled around in his pants pocket, musing flatly, "Love is kind of weird and fucked up, don't you think? People say it all the time, but… nah. I don't think they always mean it. Not really." And then his hand emerged with a little silver box, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. He flung his limp, midnight hair out of his eyes and looked past me, drawing his brows together. "You see, where I come from, love is thrown around so much and it pisses me off. It's like... 'hello' or 'goodbye' and that's not right, baby. It's bigger than life or death. Complete devotion and all that." His eyes finally met mine, imploring vacantly, "Would you agree?"

I simply stared at him, my pulse increasing as I curiously inspected the box from my periphery.

_Was it jewelry? A Christmas present, perhaps?_ I was momentarily elated with this notion, all this talk of love and silver boxes making me feel as though it should have been a gift. It had to be a gift.

I nodded, struggling to pay close attention.

His gaze dropped to the box and he silently fingered it, lifting the latch and staring at the contents before speaking. "I depend on you. Did you know that?" At my silence, his voice transformed from a limp inflection to something laced heavily with resentment, grainy and deep. "Creative dependence, I guess you could call it. For whatever reason—" He darted his hollow stare to me. "—I can't seem to play without you there."

I inwardly balked at the accusation in his eyes, wondering how that could even be, while a little, guilty part of me was hoping it was true. I longed to be so important, so integral a figure in his life, that he _couldn't_ play without me there. But there was no way of knowing. I'd only missed it, just this once. It wasn't even fair for me to wish such a thing upon him. If it were true, how frustrating would that be? To possess a passionate talent and have such a ridiculous restriction put upon its use? To have something you worked and struggled so hard for put in the hands of someone completely undeserving?

Instead of voicing this fact, I remained quiet, unable to reconcile the conflicting desires.

He only waited a moment before looking away, weary-eyed. "Have you ever heard of a cyanide pill, Bella?" he asked, no louder than a hoarse sigh. And then he turned the box to me, revealing two, tiny white tablets.

I was having one of those surreal moments where I began thinking perhaps I was dreaming. This entire situation was already a total deviation from the usual without even having to add two cyanide pills into the mix. But I wasn't dreaming. If I were, I wouldn't have been able to feel the rising droplets of sweat on my neck. I wouldn't have been seeing Edward like this, so dead and midnight. I wouldn't have just sat there, staring into the box as if it were a haunting, phantom intangibility. I certainly wouldn't have come so quickly to the realization of Edward's intentions. Had I been dreaming, Edward would have laughed and kissed me and apologized for being so silly.

How I wished I were dreaming...

The thrumming in my veins turned thunderous and I pinched my brows, shaking my head as the two white tablets stared back at me, menacingly unassuming. But I wasn't answering him. I was foreseeing what he was about to do and it was with something like disbelief, a continued wish that I was fabricating this moment, that my mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. I just didn't have enough time to recover from my shock to stop him.

He plucked one out of the box and it disappeared behind his pale lips before I could even blink.

"No!" I shrieked, my body finally coming to life as I flung myself over the table. The bottle of liquor and the festively wrapped metronome both clamored to the floor, but neither shattered; their thudding blunt. My hands flew to his stubbled chin, fingers struggling to force his lips apart with a desperation that made my fingertips clumsy. I jabbed my index finger in between and pushed, hitting his unrelenting teeth with.

He had the most disturbing smile on his face, this wicked, crooked and hollow thing. His head bobbed and shifted with my efforts to pry his mouth open, squeezing his cheeks and causing his lips to tightly purse. But then the periphery of my sight caught the lurch of his throat, the fatal swallow that made my vision blur.

I was all at once panicked, my eyes searching the space for a phone or a way to make him vomit or just... something.

_Anything_.

"It's no use," he stated offhandedly when I hurled myself at the phone lying atop his counter. I pushed the rubber buttons, my hand tremulous and clumsy. _How could he do this? What's wrong with him? Do I have time? Why is he so calm?_ The questions raced through my head faster than I could think to even have them answered. Even after I realized that the phone was dead, my fingertips assaulted the buttons, my mind frantic and pleading.

_Please let me wake up..._

I was seconds away from bursting through his door to seek a neighbor when he spoke again, "It's instant. There's no going back," he murmured.

He almost sounded bored.

I finally turned to him, only absently feeling the wetness of my hysterical tears upon my cheeks. "Why?" My teeth chattered as I stumbled to him, suddenly afraid to touch his skin. "We could go to the emergency room. They'll p-pump your st-stomach or something. It's not—"

He stopped me by shoving his hand between our faces, one little white tablet pinched between his two fingertips.

"Show me you love me."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to FrenchBeanz for the beta. 6 chapters total. Happy birthday, Jes!


	3. Peridot

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Peridot  
**+-+-+

His ears felt oddly cold beneath my palms, the cartilage hard and unforgiving as my hands slowly fell. He had three raised, yellow-bruised bumps on his right temple, evidence of a past, yet recent, red tantrum. And he looked pale. _So pale_. I wondered if the pill was already spreading its venom into his bloodstream as I focused on the rise and fall of his chest to document his signs of life.

"What?" I found myself asking.

Unmoving, he answered, "I'm dying. If you love me, then what reason do you have to live? It'll be quick and painless..." I trained my gaze on the sparkle of saliva at the corners of his lips, stoic as he pushed the tablet closer to my blanched face. He added, almost as if an afterthought, "I'd never want to cause you pain." His hand was on my thigh, fingers curling around the denim of my jeans.

He pulled me closer and I tumbled into his lap, feeling as though I'd be stiff like a statue, but finding that my limbs moved rather limply. My hand rested on his chest, savored the distant echoing of his heartbeat before it dissipated. Tears still raced down my cheeks, fell upon his white shirt and stained it with misery.

His cheek rested on my head and he mused, "What an awful existence. Walking the earth and knowing that you're alone, always mourning, never living." He embraced me with one arm, his other hand still holding the tablet out to me. Instead of staring at it, I studied the pulse in his neck, raising and falling with a rapid vibration. "_That's_ real pain, Bella. And like I said, I'd never want to cause you pain," he murmured, and then turned his face to press his lips to the crown of my head.

But he was causing me pain. He'd caused me pain by being midnight, by choosing an easy way out, by not explaining the reason, by not caring enough to live and stay with me.

Most of all, he was causing me pain because he was so very _right_.

I couldn't really fathom it, even though I tried. It was odd how my mind created the oddest visions, considered circumstances and possibilities that would have been otherwise macabre. I sincerely attempted to imagine his funeral, me sitting on a pew and watching his family, all dressed in back. They'd probably be crying, thick tears of grief and agony that I had no hope of soothing. Maybe they'd even blame me for this moment, for my inability to stop him. I imagined what it might be like to watch his casket lowered into the ground. But then, maybe he wanted to be cremated and that thought was impossibly worse. He'd be swallowed by flames and the sunset would melt to ash.

Surely, the funeral would be the easy task, however.

I wondered what it might be like to return to school, to walk the campus and try to fit my shoes into the footsteps and trails he'd once taken. I wondered what it might be like to know for certain that I'd never find anyone like Edward ever again, would never be wanted by someone so perfect and radiant. I'd go through the motions and get by, I supposed. I'd drive myself to and from classes, feed myself, buy my own books and luxuries and become as independent as I knew I really was. But this tickle of anguish that was beginning to impale my chest would be full and torturous.

That was no way to live.

He suddenly sighed, a raspy impatient sound. "Accounting for your body mass, you don't have long. Unless you want to see me die first..." he hedged.

The tears came in earnest then, because I was considering Charlie and Renee and even Angela, my nerdy roommate who barely ever said two words to me. I thought of all I'd be leaving behind and I wondered if there was a heaven and if I'd go there. Strangely, I considered whether or not I should leave a note. It was then that I realized that my mind was already made up.

Cries racked my body as he caressed my bottom lip with the tablet, sweeping it gently from side to side.

"You can say no," he assured in a soft voice, ticking my flesh with the bitter white. He attempted to pull the pill back and I watched his fingers retreat through blurry vision, my throat expelling a thick, hopeless sob.

Then I wrapped my lips around his fingers and he let the tablet go, dropping it into my mouth and thumbing the skin above my chin.

I swallowed without tasting it.

There was nothing to describe the acute apathy that eased me once I'd sealed my own fate. My muscles went limp, my sobs ceasing as I took deep, empty breaths and sought his eyes with my own. Our noses brushed as I looked up, and a minor swelling of confusion blossomed through my mind as brief disappointment addled his stare. Before I could grant it much attention, he reached down to retrieve my gift, slowly unwrapping it in our joined laps.

I watched him twist it in his hands, his eyes fixed to the device without much emotion. He placed it on the tabletop, using his fingertip to draw back the pendulum before releasing it. A rhythmic ticking filled the room then, echoing off the linoleum and cream colored walls as it swung delicately, back and forth.

"We have roughly thirty minutes to live," he whispered, careful not to disturb the fragile melody that penetrated the air. He was still, and without blinking, asked, "What do you want to do with it?"

Two dark eyes traveled to mine, suggestive.

The collision of our lips destroyed the peaceful clicking, our hands pulling fabric away from body as we shifted to accommodate difficult reaches and obstructed flesh. His mouth tasted bitter, tongue roughly textured as it invaded my own. I never closed my eyes, and though I'd already stopped crying, had already been overcome with the blissful apathy that made my calm possible, tears still descended my cheeks.

Edward's crotch was bulging and swollen.

He pulled me down to the hard floor on top of him, only removing enough of our clothing to grant himself the access necessary to penetrate me. And that's exactly what it was. _Penetration_. Clinical and direct. His hands held my thighs and he did most of the work, but his eyes, hooded and steady, remained fixed on mine.

"You're dying because you love me," he spoke as his hips raised in a fluent series of unfulfilling thrusts and plummets. His head moved to the side and he wondered, almost curiously, "Where's your fucking anger?" And I didn't truly have any to offer until that moment, but when I did, it engulfed me with such an intensity that my legs tensed, unconsciously bracing my body for its wrath upon his own.

This was all his fault. We could have been so happy, could have lived together, gone on vacations together, graduated with one another, felt each other every night. Everything could have been perfect if he'd just...

I gnashed my teeth to restrain my scream and dug my nails into his flawless chest. I pulled them down, completely dissatisfied by his chest's red marks, his sharp whine, and his shining eyes. He removed his palms from my skin, curled them into fists and smacked them loudly against the marble floor. Eventually, he didn't need to move at all, because I was dominating the moment with _my_ anger for once. This was _my_ tantrum. I ground my knees to the floor as I lifted my body, only to drop in a violent plummet, repeating the savage circuit with resounding, moist claps of colliding skin.

The anger was sinister and consuming and made every inch of my body feel restless and unsatisfied. I wanted to hit something. I wanted destruction and pain and blood and fire. I wanted to grab fistfuls of his sunset hair and tear it out, throw it over my shoulder and continue doing so until he was bald and fucking bleeding. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I wondered if this was what Edward felt so often. I wondered how he could survive it—this wretched, poisonous infestation—and ever emerge from it without being fundamentally altered in some way.

My fingernails found purchase in the muscles available and I could feel my face twisted into this ugly, awful and malicious sneer that didn't fit or feel even remotely comfortable on my own skin. Edward's abdomen constricted as he lifted his head, eyes never leaving my own as I fisted his flesh and assaulted his pelvis.

Then he smiled, and the sight of that creeping, distorted grin forced the enraged growl from my chest that I'd been suppressing—a deep gurgle that was abrasive to my throat and made my stomach burn. I lifted a fist and brought it down to his chest, the limp smack wholly unsatisfying.

His eyes weren't so empty then.

He looked positively thrilled.

Drawing gasps through his teeth in cringing hisses, he finally implored with strain, "Come with me, baby." His abdomen tensed and curled as he drew himself up, but his words forced my sudden insurgence of fury to dim just as he reached his climax, silent and trembling beneath me.

I didn't come, though. Even if I_ had_ been anywhere close to an orgasm—and I truly wasn't—I didn't want it. The last time I'd had one was before I'd left, when Edward was gentle and tender and... it was as close to lovemaking as we'd ever have.

That was what I wanted my last blissful moment to be like, not this toxic hate.

Once he stilled, I was weary, stretching my legs to stand before him, bare from the waist down. I dressed, simply because I figured I didn't want my body to be found like that, half-dressed and tainted with bitter sex.

Edward remained on the floor, staring at the ceiling as he caught his breath. His hair was smoothed away from his forehead, lips dry from the drawing of his gusty breaths. After a moment, he swallowed, glancing at me as I slid on a sock. "So you'll come next time?" he asked, propping himself casually on his elbows. I dropped myself into his seat as I stared at him, too numb to feel confusion. "To my next concert," he clarified darkly.

I drew my eyebrows together. The metronome was still in motion, the clicks growing fractionally closer with each swing of the pendulum.

When he finally rose from the floor, my eyes following him in a fluid ascent, he reached for a nearby drawer, pulling it open and emerging with a bottle. It made a deafening smack as he placed it on the table beside the source of the ticking that filled the room.

"Antacids," he murmured, reaching a hand forward to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. My eyes were glued to the white, plastic container with the red and blue label, disbelieving. Later, I'd convince myself that, somewhere, deep down, I'd always known. "It was a test. You proved yourself, you know." He sighed and backed away, taking the seat I had once occupied.

The table was turned.

He pursed his lips as he retrieved the bottle of liquor from the floor, his white shirt flapping open at his sides. When he drank, he inspected me over the bottle. I was too busy staring at the antacids, and coming to terms with the fact that I wasn't dying, to regard him at all.

I wondered why I felt so disappointed.

His flat chuckle drew my eyes to him and I vaguely studied the mangled lines my fingernails had etched into his chest through my foggy periphery. "I just can't figure out what you proved," he finally mused, tapping his finger to the table in time with the metronome. "Whether you really love me, or that you're just an insufferably gullible girl."

He didn't even try to stop me when I stood, turning my back and leaving, wordless and numb.

-+-+-+-

It's night and I'm cleaning the house, having already checked in with Charlie over the phone. It's past visiting hours and I missed my window of opportunity to stay the night with him, not that he was particularly accepting of the concept anyway.

The house is quiet, the yellow walls appearing worn and tired. I have the fleeting urge to paint while Charlie's inhibited, lying miles away where he can offer no protest. But I don't. It seems incredibly fitting for the walls to look this way—a dim reminder of vibrancy. I busy myself with doing dishes, which consist of one coffee cup, one frying pan, one plate, one fork, and one butter knife.

I hate feeling as though he's so... _one._

I hate thinking of Edward sitting at his table this very moment, drinking and delving into the depths of a malicious depression. Of course, he wouldn't be at his table._ He's having a party_, I remind myself, the vision of many people occupying his home a surprising relief to me. I figure he can't do much damage with so many people present to witness it. It isn't his style. He prefers to isolate before he manipulates, granting his misery the company it craves.

I know better than to even do so, but for some reason, I'm overcome with the craving to hear his voice, to pick up my cell phone and dial the seven numbers that will offer me a connection to him. It really makes no sense—I know that it won't go well, and yet, I find my feet carrying me up the stairs, my hand reaching for the phone on my old dresser, my fingers dialing the numbers as the screen glows mutely at me.

I am a masochist.

When he answers, he doesn't speak. I hear only the faint traces of music in the background and figure he's locked himself away somewhere. Perhaps his room? I can't hear his breaths. His mouth is far from the receiver. My room is dark. I didn't even bother turning on the light.

"Edward," I begin, my voice shaky and uncertain and I hate that this mood makes me feel that way. I try to place myself in an alternate moment to remind myself that this version of Edward isn't really him. I imagine we're holding hands and walking down the sidewalk over by the campus library. He likes to take walks and watch people and feel the cold, even when it's ridiculously below freezing. He smiles at me and strokes my skin with his thumb, telling me about some piece he's been working on as his eyes, alight, remain trained to mine. His hair is flung in opposing directions with the snow-flurry wind. It sticks to the tips, frosts them to match his skin. His nose is red. His lips are smiling, his aura a vibrant green. His voice is smooth and engaged. He never even trips. When I do, he catches me, slender fingers grasping my hips above the puffiness of the jacket that he's given me. He kisses me on the cheek, lips cold yet warm, and shakes his head in playful annoyance.

The other, blacker, version of Edward breaks me from this satisfying trance. "You promised," are his only words and they are slurred enough for me to be utterly confident that he's three sheets to the wind.

"I'm so sorry," I offer, helpless and apologetic, yet not. How can I be? Were it his father lying in a hospital bed, I would have been understanding.

"Sorry is..." His breath hisses over the line in a steady sigh. "... so very lacking."

I pause and grind my teeth at this version of Edward. So cool and seemingly collected and empty and full of liquor and bitterness. I keep reminding myself that it's not him. It's not him. It's not him.

And then I'm pissed off.

"I don't know what to tell you, Edward," I say and I cannot suppress my sudden surge of annoyance. "My dad could have died and you don't even give a shit. That's what's _so very lacking_," I mock. "I know Mommy and Daddy Cullen probably raised you to believe that the world revolves around every shit you take, but guess what? It doesn't. It wouldn't kill you to show some fucking compassion every now and again." My chest is rising and falling in sharp movements, the hand grasping the phone shaking. I'm lightheaded. Spots dance across my vision, but I'm not taking any of it back. I stand my ground.

Which is easy to do when that ground is thousands of miles away.

What happens next is just so typical. It's so cliche and obvious and transparent, so when he actually hangs up on me, I wonder why I feel this spark of shock and hurt and anger.

But I know he'll regret doing that. It may take a while, but eventually, all of this black will dissipate and bleed and melt into the vibrant and lulling shade of green that I'm in love with.

+-+-+

It took Edward three hours to call after he'd convinced me to kill myself.

The residual apathy from that moment of decision hadn't left me. I was still filled with it, every inch of my body limp in refusal to do anything but the absolute, bare minimum necessary for immediate survival. It perplexed me, but I didn't care enough to even ponder why I felt this way.

Then the calls began.

+-+-+

_"Bella, pick up the phone. Pick up. Jesus fucking Christ, just answer, would 'ya? Whatever, bye."_

+-+-+

_"Are you giving me the silent treatment or something? Goddammit, pick up the goddamn phone, Bella."_

+-+-+

_"Hey, baby. I just woke up and... look, just call me, okay?"_

+-+-+

_"Bella? You're kind of starting to worry me here. I'm... I'm really sorry. I don't know what happened last night. I think I was drunk and... did that happen? I was a little out of it. My chest is all scratched and... Christ. Please call me when you get this."_

+-+-+

_"Fuck, babe, I... I don't know what to do."_

+-+-+

_"Hey, this is Alice. Sorry about calling so late, but Edward just called me and... He told me what happened and I think you should talk to him. He feels shitty and I'm worried. I told you to stay away. Call me back if you hear from him, okay? Bye."  
_

+-+-+

_"I'm freaking out here. You won't even talk to me? You have to let me apologize, at the very least. I'm so sorry, baby_—_fuck. I can't apologize like this."_

+-+-+

_"Please. Please. Please."_

+-+-+

_"Hey! Alice, again. So... you never called me back and Edward's... he's not doing so well. I don't think he's sleeping or something, it's weird. He... cut his hand up pretty bad on his bathroom mirror. Twelve stitches or something. He's such a drama queen, you know. What the hell is going on up there? Please call me. Or him. No, call him first, please? Bye."_

+-+-+

_"Bella, I'm such a fucking fuck-up. Please... can you just answer the phone so I can apologize and then...__ Please?"  
_

+-+-+

_"Bella? I'm going crazy over here. I miss you. It's been almost a week and... shit. Shit shit shit. Baby, I'm coming over."_

+-+-+

_"I'm coming up, please let me in, okay? I don't know what I'd do if... Just let me in. Please."_

+-+-+

I'd locked myself away in my dorm room, had missed all my classes without even caring. It was uncharacteristic of me to do such a thing, to blow off my studies and completely isolate myself. If I had to describe my state of mind, it was like losing the light I'd once followed. My bed was stiff and uninviting as I lay beneath my stale blankets and stared at the wall. I could hear the distant sounds of people, through the halls of the dorm, the streets below, the floor above, following the light they still had. Everything was thriving and moving and teeming, and I was just here. Laying alone in the dark and breathing like my chest was empty.

I knew what had to be done.

I just didn't know why I couldn't do it.

He knocked twenty seven times. I counted each one, not even flinching as they grew more and more insistent.

He eventually found the door unlocked. Angela had lost her key, left the door unlatched as she usually did. Stupid girl. His feet shuffled to where I lay, his breathing a beacon that was nothing like the light I'd been searching for.

The bed dipped as he lowered himself at my side and I felt like grey. I felt like simple and static and putty and uncaring. I felt dirty. I felt _used_. When his hand wrapped around my hip, I didn't feel a spark or a draw or some stupid fucking instant connection. I felt how he'd entered me a week prior, clinical and direct, and had basically manipulated me into having sex with him.

"Do you hate me?" he asked, his stiff breath tickling my neck with warmth.

I thought about remaining silent, but figured it pointless. "I want to," I answered truthfully, finding my voice to be weak from disuse.

Wordlessly, he stood, leaving me cold in the bed while he traveled to my bathroom and began filling the tub with water. I didn't want to look at him, because I knew the second I did, my resolve would falter, and I'd hate myself for it. When he wedged his arms beneath me and lifted me in the air, I felt heavy. His strain was evident and I felt like cinder blocks and rebar, concrete filling stone.

He cradled me to his chest, sounds of air beyond skin and muscle and sternum echoing through my ear, and carried me into the bathroom's harsh, fluorescent white. I watched the back of his head though the mirror as he peeled the clothes from my body, uttering the occasional, "Lift," when necessary. He removed his own clothing, stepping into the tub before me and leading me to lay against him.

He bathed me.

With ginger strokes of his fingertips, knuckles bandages all soaked through, he massaged and pampered my shoulders, pressing his nose into my hair while his thighs surrounded my own.

"You don't love me," he said into my neck, voice disturbingly steady. His soapy, bandaged palms glided down my arms until they encircled my waist and he was embracing me, lounging with one foot propped on the edge of the tub. He continued, "You don't hate me, but you don't love me. Eventually you'll jump off the fence, to one side or the other, but..." With a sigh that lifted me and rippled the water, his embrace tightened. "Either way, I'm going to be your tortured past, baby."

The water was hot around us, sending clouds of steam curling around our slick skin and unspoken words.

"Something about you isn't right," I eventually said.

I felt his nod behind me and the loosening of his arms. "Yeah, maybe," he responded, so plainly, as if I'd questioned his dinner choice instead of his sanity.

Shaking my head from side to side against his throat, I argued, "It's not a matter of 'maybe', Edward. It's not normal. It's not..." I paused at his echoing swallow, thunderous from behind my head.

"This is what I am," he declared, his gravelly voice betraying a sorrow that I'd only just seen beyond the surface of. "You should leave me now and save us both the trouble." He added in a pained whisper, "Save yourself the troubled past. Save us both the fucking heartbreak."

"I should," I agreed. The room sagged with the weight of the silence that followed, cold despite the rising steam and thick tension that grew stagnant around our moist bodies.

"But you won't," he sighed. I couldn't decipher whether this fact made him more relieved or frustrated, equal emotions coloring his statement with contrasting tenors.

I didn't answer for many reasons. I didn't answer because saying it aloud was more of a promise than I could have made--than I _should have_ made. I didn't answer because I didn't want to trivialize what he'd put me through. I didn't answer because I wanted to see his fear when he realized that it was a possibility, my leaving him. Even though it wasn't a possibility at all.

Mostly, I didn't answer him because I was ashamed of this fact.

He rinsed and lathered my hair without jostling me, water and suds running carelessly down his chest. "You're the only thing in this world that's ever made me wish I was better," he supplied, sounding rather wondrous as his fingertips explored my scalp.

I wondered, "Why can't you be?" and I could feel my fists clench. I could feel the curling of my toes and the sting of my chest. I could feel the anger and resentment building from my abdomen and crawling up my esophagus. I could feel anger.

I could feel.

His response into my hair was hushed, seeping of dirty secret and shame, "I try, Bella. I'm trying so hard." Though fervent and sincere, he sounded more defeated than anything, chin dropping to my shoulder. He continued, lips against my neck, "Eventually, you'll decide: love or hate. I want you to choose both equally, and its—I'm selfish enough to wait and see." I could feel his eyes on mine, so green and intense as he smoothed back my freshly rinsed hair.

After a moment, his fingers traced my lips, and he sighed an agonized breath, whispering, "And you're weak enough to let me."

And I was.

+-+-+

It was never the same for us after that day. We'd moved so far past the obligatory honeymoon stage that it didn't even feel like it had ever existed. We skipped the bickering phase, sensations of red and black making me quick to placate him whenever confrontation arose. We moved right into the comfortably silent stage. Words were spoken when necessary, but rarely led to the heated and passionate discussions the early stages of our relationship had seen.

It didn't even feel like a relationship at all.

We cared about one another, still kissed hello and goodbye, still had that itch to call one another and hear a warm voice. But there was a distance between us that was so tangible to me that I sometimes thought, were I to look hard enough, I could see a wall.

One could have ventured that he was intentionally pushing me away, trying to sacrifice his desire for my presence to give me the space I needed to come to a resolution. But that was far from the case. His apologies were constant, his pleas exhausting, his eyes a constant and piercing shade of green green green.

The attempts to reconcile his varying personalities were utterly frustrating. I knew I loved him when he was green, but could I? Could I only love the green? Did I have to love the gold and red and black and every inch of his skin as well as every flaw of his mind? Could love be limited? Didn't that lessen it?

I used to think so, but I wasn't so certain anymore.

I attended his performances and he played flawlessly, body thrown into a maelstrom of sways and accommodations to dark and ominous melodies. His eyes would flit to mine afterward, so green. He'd rub his forehead beneath the bright lights and bow, eyes closed, fingers curled into fists at his sides. No one in the audience ever left the auditorium smiling, instead pensive, at best.

Two months after our self-imposed distance, Edward and I were lying on his sofa. I was reading a book—a classic romance—and found myself absorbed in the characters and how the protagonist was being wooed to epic proportions by a swoon-worthy suitor. Edward was laying at one end of the couch, I on the other, our legs all entangled as my brows pinched unconsciously at the pages.

He began rubbing my foot with his deft hands as he began, "You should stay tonight." I looked up to find him staring at me with smoldering eyes, his sunset hair parted at an awkward angle from his tugging fingers.

I shrugged in a non-committal fashion, though on the inside, my stomach plummeted. We hadn't slept in the same bed since before the holidays. We had no need to, as I had only ever stayed on the nights we had sex.

His hand crept up my ankle and under the hem of my jeans, ascending my shin. He leaned forward to accommodate his reach, sighing heavily, "I need you." The strain in his voice was apparent and I set my book aside, drawing my lip into my mouth to suck it anxiously.

He moved to hover over me, hungry eyes roaming my body. He slithered into position between my legs, capturing my lips with a clumsy kiss that betrayed his impatience. A hand clutched my hip, his pelvis pressing into me with urgency as our kiss escalated.

When I pulled away, he simply began sucking at my neck, groaning into my skin when his erection rubbed against me.

"It's been so long," he pleaded, shoving a hand up my shirt and grasping my breast, causing me to hiss through my teeth as I arched into him. "I need you," he repeated, panting with the building friction between our throbbing crotches. "I need this. I've been so fucking hard for you. _Fuck_, baby."

When I pushed him away from me, he didn't look frustrated or angry or even disappointed. His head hung when he returned to his position opposite me, the bulge in his pants painfully apparent as he nursed his swollen lips with his tongue and caught his breath.

Without meeting my gaze he said, "I'm sorry." When he stood and entered the bathroom, closing the door, I could hear his muffled grunts and groans. The sound of my name being uttered with hissing breaths was followed by the sounds of a fuacet.

Ten minutes later, he emerged, face flushed, hands damp, eyes a crestfallen green.

He gave me one kiss on the temple before taking me home, and I think that was the moment we both knew—sitting in his car before the dorm while he stared into his lap, keys tangled around his fingers.

"This is over, isn't it?" he asked, his murmur thunderous in the thick silence. Sparing me a glance full of agony that made my stomach clench, he clarified, "Romantically, at least." I drew my lip between my teeth and closed my eyes, willing my tears to abate.

I nodded.

The pain of his voice as he continued colored his word with a blue sorrow. "We'll still be there for each other, every day." It wasn't a question or a plea, but rather, a fact. "Until you decide." I nodded again, opening my eyes to find his glistening, staring out over the parking lot with a taut jaw.

When I finally exited the car, the air was warm and humid and made my lungs feel unbearably tight.

And that was the end of the beginning.


	4. Amber

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**Amber**  
+-+-+

For Charlie, the novelty of scheduled meals and the glory of being a town hero fade swiftly. The following afternoon, I'm sitting at his bedside, making arrangements regarding a home nurse for a month or more, finding out which bills will need to be paid when, and attempting to comprehend what the doctors say when they enter, intermittently.

I'm also trying to forget Edward.

"This is my daughter," Charlie states proudly when nurses enter and make the usual small talk. He raises his chin and wiggles his mustache, declaring, "She's going to graduate from Columbia College of Arts in Chicago soon."

They 'ooh' and 'ahh', and I blush forty shades of scarlet and hide my face when they ask if I've left any dashing artistes back in the Midwest.

At this, Charlie's chin drops and he rolls his eyes. "My baby girl don't need no damn man putting wrenches in her plans. All them college boys'r just for fun, a'int that right, Bells?"

I palm my forehead, blushing impossibly redder as I mutter, "_Jesus_, Dad…" _Time to cut back on the pain meds…_

When the nurse leaves, he sits up and regards me, eyes a glassy brown. "All kidding aside, I mean what I say," he begins, and my eyes widen as my back grows stiff. He sniffs, ruffling his mustache. "You're a pretty girl and I'm sure you have your boys, and God knows I don't wanna hear about it, but don't forget, you're young. You have more potential than most people have in the tip of their finger. Never forget that. Don't you go getting yourself all tied down to some moody artist who don't know what he's got. I raised a better girl than that."

I've never mentioned Edward to Charlie. I've never even hinted at my having… _boys_. This isn't a conversation he'd be having sober, and though I realize he'll feel utterly humiliated once I'm gone and he's more lucid, I can't help but feel that maybe Charlie is more intuitive than I've ever given him credit for.

He sniffles again, lying back, and as if reading my mind, says, "A father always knows." He's passed out within seconds, the thunder of his snores ricocheting around the room.

I feel ashamed—because I haven't told Charlie anything about my life back in Chicago—because he can so easily guess what that life is like anyway—because he is so very right—because I can't heed his advice, regardless.

I'm in the cafeteria, swallowing down a sorry excuse for chicken soup when my cell phone begins vibrating inside my jacket pocket. Taking it out and flipping it open, I'm expecting to see Alice or Rose or Angela.

But it's Edward.

I choke on the scalding broth and gawk at my LCD screen before hastily answering.

"Edward?"

There is breathing on the other end, some light shuffling, and then a raspy, "Hey, baby."

My plastic spoon falls into my soup, sending a shocked splash over the edges of the Styrofoam. It takes me a moment to formulate a stammered, "H-h-hey."

He doesn't sound black or red or gold, but rather, green. _Green green green. _My heart thrums loudly.

"Where are you?" he whispers, barely audible, in the way he'd usually speak when hung over.

"I'm in the hospital cafeteria," I respond, still shell-shocked.

"Oh," he breathes, and then, after a loaded silence, asks, "How's your dad?"

My forehead is so pinched in confusion that I'm drawing stares from the cafeteria staff. "What?"

He repeats in a gravelly tone, "Your dad, Charlie. How's he doing? Will he be okay?" My silence draws on and he asks in a hurried tone, "Baby? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I answer, shaking my head. "Just surprised, I guess."

There is a long pause in which I can hear water running, his white-noised sigh loud in my ear. "Why?" he finally asks.

Ignoring this, I begin, "He'll be okay. The bullet hit an artery in his thigh, but he'll be going home soon."

"That's… great," he sighs heavily, a whoosh of air that travels through static. "I miss you so much."

I'm rigid now. "Edward?" I ask, picking up my bowl of soup and walking toward the nearest trash can. "Is everything okay?"

His silence is so suspended that I stand and wait, my stomach churning in anticipation. "Nothing is ever okay when you're gone," he ultimately replies.

"Aren't you mad at me?" I snap, more worried than annoyed.

"What? Nah, baby. I was such a dick last night. I just got so drunk and my mom and dad…" He pauses here and clears his throat, and I already know what he's about to say. It doesn't make it any easier. "They didn't come to the party and I was…. I'm sorry," he finishes, unable to ever admit how much his parents hurt him. I can't understand why; I have never been able to fully comprehend his loyalty to them.

The guilt I feel is unfounded, and yet it makes my chest ache with such an intensity that I must travel back to my table and sit down.

"I wish I could've been there," I supply with sincerity before adding in a lower voice, "They should've come to the party."

Edward's snort is bitter. "Parties are for celebrating, remember?"

I close my eyes and sigh, "I remember."

+-+-+

After that night in his car, Edward and I became something indefinable. We were more than friends, but less than lovers. It was pretty much the same as it had always been, with the exception of any physical relationship. We still met one another after classes, ate dinner together, studied and practiced together, watched a movie every Saturday night, ate Thai every Tuesday, and still went people-watching whenever he'd need the inspiration.

The kisses stopped.

We no longer held hands, dipped pinkies under waistbands, shoved toes up pant legs, or buried noses in warm necks. There was a careful distance between us at all times, and though Edward would smile and remain complacent for the most part, I could see the difficulty he had in the twitching of his fingertips, his accidental reaches and hasty withdrawals.

He wasn't green—green was too affectionate and tender, feelings which neither of us could properly show anymore. Instead, he was always gold, somber and reserved. Sometimes I'd notice him staring into space, lost in his head for hours at a time, unusually silent, but never unkindly so. Gold was the color of defeat, shame, and acceptance, laced with sorrow for that which he couldn't reach.

Gold was the color of his settling.

He'd try to hold in his tantrums when we were together, often disappearing into a back room or snappily excusing himself to take a brisk walk through the campus. He'd always return with bruises littering his temples and forehead, eyes flat, arms limp, exhausted.

He could tire himself out so completely.

Those moments were the hardest for me to not offer physical affection. My being couldn't comprehend the limitation. It was almost as if I were addicted to him so badly that I could feel myself going through withdrawals, like a junkie who walked around all day with a loaded syringe in his pocket. It was so close that I could touch it, though I refused.

I was doing so well, however. I was beginning to feel less anxiety about being in his presence. His efforts to conceal his tantrums must have been more effective than I realized, because it got to the point where I nearly thought he wasn't having them anymore. The thought elated me to an intoxicating degree, but his fresh bruises always proved otherwise.

Nevertheless, it was no longer my duty to prevent them, and though this should have pained me, though it should have made me feel unfathomable guilt, it did not. I was relieved and felt the weight of the undeniable burden lifted from my shoulders, could be in his presence and actually inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

It was freeing.

It wasn't until his twenty-third birthday that I realized just how little had changed—for us both. We had dinner plans with his family at a luxurious restaurant. Alice was even flying down from New York. Edward was clearly excited to see everyone.

"Just wait 'til you see Alice in person. She's nothing like she sounds." He smiled as he opened the car door for me to enter.

"I've seen pictures," I laughed, holding my palms to the air vent to get warm. "Are Esme and Carlisle coming?" I asked. I'd only met them here and there at Edward's performances and was secretly looking forward to having an actual conversation with them.

Edward's smile was crooked, a flash of his eyes betraying his anticipation. "Yep."

It wasn't often that his entire family came together, I easily deduced. His sister had moved away young, which, in Alice's case, struck me as odd. She'd lived right next to one of the most acclaimed schools of design in the country and yet had chosen to relocate to New York to pursue her fashion design degree. Whenever I'd ask her about it over the phone, she'd just say, "I'm a New York girl."

It was common knowledge that their parents were busy, Chicago elite. They found time to come to Edward's performances, but I'd never seen them anywhere else. This too struck me as odd.

Emmett came around often enough, I supposed, but was busy in his own way. Rosalie Hale, his long-term girlfriend, often complained to me about the hazards of dating a law student. Sometimes I felt like she was trying to get me to do the girly, 'complain about our boyfriends' thing.

I didn't technically have a boyfriend.

When we arrived at the restaurant, I found that Edward was right. Alice was nothing like she sounded, or had even appeared to look in pictures.

She was… miniature.

I fell back beside the car and watched their reunion with a small smile. Edward was spinning Alice around in a hug, her giggles buoyant as her frilly skirt billowed in the chilled wind. Sure enough, Emmett's ear was glued to his cell phone as he smoked a cigarette, tucked into the brick wall of the building.

"Show some fucking manners, jackass," Alice scolded, smacking him in the back of his head with her small clutch-purse.

At this reminder, Edward's eyes flitted to me and he cursed, "_Shit,_ sorry. This is Bella." He came to my side and extended his hand but immediately drew it back, shoving it into his pocket.

Thankfully, Alice didn't notice.

She turned to me with a toothy grin. "Well, of course it's Bella. Who else would put up with you for an entire car ride?" Her hug made me feel small, even though she only came up to my chin in height.

The edges of Edward's eyes tightened, imperceptible to most.

Once we were all seated inside at a dimly lit and extravagant table, it became clear that something was awry. Emmett bent sideways to whisper into Alice's ear, his brows pulled together with a subtle, yet angry, expression.

Alice's eyes darkened then, settling on Edward's face. "We should just start now," she said.

Edward was perusing the menu with soft eyes, seeming so content that it made my chest bloom with warmth. "Okay. What looks good?" he asked.

"Order for me?" I implored, nervous by all the prices and foreign words. I wouldn't have usually agreed to dine at such a fancy restaurant, but it was a special occasion.

Emmett and Alice ordered first, suddenly solemn after their suspiciously hushed conversation. The waitress was a brunette girl, maybe a year or so younger than my twenty, and wore the skimpiest little dress I'd ever expected to see in such a classy establishment. Actually, all of the female wait staff wore skimpy dresses.

When she turned to Edward, one of her hips jutted outward and she smiled coyly. "Would you like to see a wine list?" she asked, to which we all agreed. Alcohol would be necessary for the occasion—especially since I had to watch Edward's eyes sporadically travel to the waitress's perky cleavage. No one ever questioned my age when I was with a Cullen.

On her third round to the table, I was getting fed up. She kept leaning over to fill glasses and place bowls before us. It was impossible not to stare at her tits. It was impossible for even _me_ not to stare at her tits. The most frustrating thing of all, however, was that no one seemed to notice, or even seem bothered, by her blatantly provocative actions. Edward spoke to Emmett, Alice spoke to me, and Miss Brunette's eye-fucking of my companion was getting out of hand.

It was on her fourth round that I decided to put my foot down.

My hand found Edward's, resting beside his plate, and grasped it tightly, my smile at her sickly sweet.

And she fucking returned it. "Are you done with your salad?" she asked, poised to remove it with kind eyes. Her hands clasped before her and she swayed slightly, looking so much like a little girl.

Having clearly misread the situation, I suddenly felt ridiculous.

Nodding my head, I tried not to cringe as she reached over the table to take my plate, her restaurant-issued dress pushing her breasts outward. Poor girl probably hated wearing that nonsense, but had to. She was wearing heels, too. No waitress makes the choice to wear heels.

With a sigh, I looked to Edward, who was staring at our hands with a stunned expression. I swallowed uncomfortably but didn't release him. In fact, I kept my hand so unnaturally still that I could feel my palm growing clammy.

He emitted a steady breath and leaned toward me, my spine going rigid as he angled his nose so that it just barely grazed the shell of my ear. He paused and I could hear the wet sounds of his tongue dampening his lips before he purred, "You jealous, baby?"

Every ounce of air escaped my lungs in a silent whoosh, skin tingling from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

My panties were soaked.

He leaned back, shifting in his seat with a sly grin as he lounged comfortably, interlacing his fingers with my own and resuming his conversation with Emmett. My hooded eyes felt glassy and unfocused as they eventually settled on Alice across from me.

Her eyes were pained as she mouthed a silent, "I'm sorry," that only served to confuse me. Before I could question her, she cleared her throat loudly and turned to Edward, face stoic. Emmett went eerily silent as she began, "So, yeah, here's the deal. Mom and Dad aren't coming." She swept her hand over the table and smacked it loudly atop the opulent cloth that covered it.

Edward's hand slipped slowly from mine. "Aren't coming?" he asked, face blank. At their silence, he gathered his hands in his lap, out of view, and shrugged. "Whatever. You know how busy they get." Without addressing it further, he sipped his wine and avoided their shocked gazes.

Alice gawked, "Aren't you like… pissed off?"

Again, he shrugged. "I'm playing next week, Al. I'll see 'em then. What's the difference?"

Emmett's chuckle was gusty and relieved. "Thank God, man. I was so nervous you'd freak out." Alice's sharp elbow to his ribs and narrowed stare was enough to make him cease talking.

Edward rolled his eyes. "I'd rather it just be us anyway," he insisted, looking appropriately 'fine' as he waved his hand dismissively.

Alice's grin returned, though she couldn't hide her piteous expression as she exclaimed, "Well, alright! Emmett's paying, so I'm getting the filet mignon."

The evening passed with smiles and childhood stories passed from one to the other, to the other. To any casual observer, the entire occasion probably seemed comfortable and happy. Hands were waved animatedly in the air, laughter arose from our table, Emmett played walrus with drinking straws, and Alice chided him whenever he'd answer his cell phone. I'm sure it seemed perfect—even to them.

But I knew the strain around Edward's eyes and could see his fists in his lap, could hear the choke in his laughter and see the flaring of his nostrils. I could sense the tightness in his voice and feel the vibrations of his bouncing knee.

He couldn't hide his red from me.

+-+-+

"I'll just be a minute," he said, smiling tightly as he disappeared into his room. He'd said he wanted to change while I packed up my clothes, since I'd gotten ready at his apartment after class that afternoon.

In the bathroom, I gathered my things into a bag and washed my face, slipped out of my heels, and rubbed between my toes. I'd had a little too much wine, unconsciously anxious as a result of Edward's hidden tension, and felt warm and fuzzy.

The moment of connection we'd shared in the restaurant had completely dissipated by the time we'd gotten in his car. The entire drive had been silent and weighty, and he'd kept himself so far shoved toward his door, and away from me, that I'd felt intrusive and unwelcome.

I waited in the foyer for ten minutes, bag in one hand, swaying slightly as I clutched my heels in the other. Eventually, it became apparent that Edward wasn't just changing into more casual clothing. I nervously padded down the hall and found his door closed, no sound coming from the other side.

It was incredibly forward for me to enter. Before, when we'd been more, it wouldn't have been a big deal, but now… it wasn't my place to just walk into his bedroom. The buzz from the wine made me brave but paranoid, and I carefully placed my things down before approaching his door. I put my ear to it but didn't hear anything aside from a steady, soft thumping.

I stupidly wondered if maybe he were masturbating. I hoped he was masturbating to thoughts of me, and the notion made my skin flush and my thighs rub together. I remembered how he'd purred into my ear, had licked his lips and called me 'baby' so seductively.

I turned the knob and cautioned a glance inside, wiggling my toes.

"Oh, God," I gasped. My hand flew to my mouth, clapping over my parted lips as I flung the door open. Edward was perched on the edge of his bed, and he was red.

_Red red red…_

It'd been so long since I'd witnessed one of his red tantrums, and I would have thought I'd gotten used to seeing it, but how could I? How could I ever get used to seeing his red? How could I ever get used to seeing him shake and ripple? How could I ever, ever get used to seeing his fists assault his own head, as if the enemy he were fighting were himself?

It was the most ridiculous thing to witness. Alice called him a drama queen and Emmett often playfully referred to Edward as a "nutless emo." They'd probably laugh at displays like this, and shamefully, there were times when I'd laughed at it, too.

But it was no laughing matter. Having spent so long without witnessing it, the significance of his tantrum now seemed real and frightening. I tried to grab at his wrists, but he was panting and trembling as they flew toward his head repeatedly, so tightly clenched that his tendons were white.

Thankfully, when he realized my presence, he stilled his fists, eyes snapping to mine. "Get the fuck out," he spat.

I didn't flinch at the red anger I saw in his glare, instead opting to smooth his hair away from his purple forehead in what I hoped was a comforting gesture. "Calm down," I soothed.

He smacked my hand away, and this time, I did flinch. "I said, get the fuck out!" He shoved a finger at the door and was suddenly lurching forward. His chest expanded and contracted, his white shirt unbuttoned and revealing his flushed skin.

I battled back a sigh and stepped forward, between his knees, worrying, "You're going to hurt yourself." I ran my fingertips across the hot skin of his temples, raised and bruising. It felt so good to finally see it and be able to comfort him. I wondered why I'd been so adamant on not doing so for so long.

"Yeah? What the fuck do you care?" he snapped, jerking his head away.

I frowned, the pang in my chest dull as a result of my inebriation. "I always care, Edward." Leaning down, I placed a soft kiss on his temple, willing his pain and red away with the tenderness in my lips.

He was puffing and breathless, and showed no signs of calming. "I don't want to hurt you," he growled, attempting to move away from me.

"You'd never hurt me."

He barked a laugh, teeth grinding. "What, isn't that all I ever fucking do? Hurt you? We both know you don't wanna see me like this. So get. The fuck. Out." His stare was menacing, his lips curled up into a stony sneer that exposed his teeth, his face blotched with angry bumps and red red red.

I told myself it was the wine—the wine and the moment in the restaurant, his nose skimming my ear and sending electricity shooting down my body, straight to my thighs. It was the way he'd look at me sometimes and disappear into his bathroom, his grunts soft and muffled. It was the way I'd notice the tension in the cracking of his neck whenever I'd wear a skirt with stockings, or a deeply scooping v-neck. It was how I knew that he'd want sex so badly, it would completely distract him from even the red.

But mostly, I blamed the wine for my palms pressing flush against my legs and lifting upward, ever so slightly, to expose my barely parted thighs.

His eyes lurched to my legs, his stony sneer falling with a stunned immediacy. "What are you doing?" he breathed, inspecting every centimeter of flesh that I exposed to him with an achingly slow ascent.

"I wanna stay the night," I answered plainly, bunching the fabric up further.

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. "No, you don't. Stop playing fucking games with me."

I giggled, buoyant and buzzed. "Fucking games."

His shock transformed into annoyance and he looked away, scoffing. "_Christ_, you're just drunk."

"Come on," I pouted, moving closer and finding that straddling his lap was so pleasantly pleasant and pleasingly pleasing. "I'm not _that_ drunk," I assured, and then wound my arms around his stiff neck and placed my lips to the patch of flesh below his ear.

I could feel him fisting the comforter in his hands. "If you're waiting for me to spout off some chivalrous bullshit about how I can't take advantage of you, you've chosen a really piss poor night." As if to warn me further, he released the fabric of the comforter and palmed my legs, dragging his hands up my skin before grasping two firm handfuls of my ass.

I moaned into his neck—moist from my kisses, hot from his red—and shifted until I could feel the bulge of his crotch pressing into me. I rocked against him, feeling so ready and utterly idiotic for fighting him off for so long.

In a flurry of motion that my intoxicated mind couldn't even decipher, he had me lifted from his lap. Strong hands grasped my hips and stood me upright with a disorienting jostle. He bent me over the bed and propped me on my palms. I could see him standing behind me through the reflection of his dresser mirror, eyes hooded, lips pressed into a thin and bitter line.

An eager hand fumbled with his belt while the other hastily flipped the skirt of my dress up, exposing me to his frustrated eyes. In one swift movement, my panties were yanked to my ankles and I was taunting him with my thrilled giggles. I bowed my back to press my bare skin against his freed erection. His eyes were fixed to where we were to meet, one palm on each cheek as he shifted and straightened and positioned and pushed.

My giggles died abruptly with the sucking of air from my lungs, eyes sliding closed as he filled me. It'd been so long and I was unprepared, had forgotten how unfathomably fantastic it'd feel. I pressed back into him to savor the sensation, but Edward wasn't nearly as patient.

He began pulling back and thrusting into me with a force that knocked me from my palms. I pressed my forehead into the mattress, the fabric muffling my cries. Our visceral claps of collision were joined with my clipped shrieks and his animalistic grunts.

Over and over he smacked against me, the bed moving and groaning with the succinct driving of his hips.

He covered my back with his chest and panted grittily into my ear as he continued, eventually flattening his palm to my forehead and forcing my head up. I could see him in the mirror and it made me moan. His brows were pulled together angrily, his breaths into my neck warm and moist while his hips rhythmically knocked us forward.

Then his eyes met mine through the reflection, and he slowed to a barely-there undulation. Wayward locks of my hair were held captive by his sticky lips, his heavy huffs failing to free them. His brow smoothed and he stilled, wordless and blank.

I whimpered loudly when he withdrew and pulled away, but was satisfied when he merely began removing his remaining items of clothing. He guided me to lie on my back and lifted the dress from my body, pulling it gently over my head. His hair hung in his face as settled himself between my thighs and softly asked, "Still on the pill?"

At my breathless nod, he shifted his hips and filled me once again, an elongated groan punctuating the deep crease of his brows.

My plan had worked and he was no longer red.

His whisper against my cheek was nothing more than a wet sigh, "I missed you so much, baby." He moved tenderly, slowly, and I watched the muscles where his thigh met his hip shift beneath his skin as he writhed into me. I marveled at how perfectly we fit together as I observed his movements, my legs comfortably surrounding him.

When he pulled back to meet my gaze, he smiled, and it wasn't bitter or angry or derisive.

_Green green green__._

He looked so happy and satisfied as his eyelids slid closed, forehead resting against mine. It felt like lovemaking. It felt like sweet and gentle and gossamer kisses and promises and devotion. It wasn't what I'd planned at all. I'd wanted him to vent his frustration and loosen his tension, but I hadn't meant for him to think that…

"This isn't my decision," I said, stiff despite the undeniably pleasant feel of him inside of me.

He grunted once more, rhythm never wavering, as he replied, "I know." When his gaze, hooded and dark and green, finally met mine, he clarified, panting, "I'll take what I can get."

+-+-+

This is what we are now: a careful balance of give and take and settle and always keep our mouths shut about it. It's an arrangement, unspoken and looming above our heads like a cloud that dances before the sun. Sometimes we're bathed in light, but we're always expecting the dark to return. I have the power to break the cycle, to walk away and cut my losses, but I never do. I wish I have an excuse worthy for it, other than the moments of green and sunlight and perfection that I never dreamed of even being capable of touching. But the truth is, I don't. The good is better than any other good that I could ever hope to have. The bad, though usually hidden from my wide eyes, creeps through the brightness and poisons us at times, but it's worth it. Being his makes it worth it. Knowing he's mine makes it worth it. I've built myself around the concept since that day I'd met him on a sunny campus, three years prior, and I'm constant.

I'm a Charlie, not a Renee, and my walls will remain a faded yellow because Edward is my home.

_Do I ever resent him?_ Every day.

_Do I ever resent myself?_ Every minute.

_Do I ever regret never not saying 'no' that day, three years ago? _Never.

I ponder it on my flight back to Chicago, feeling happily content that Charlie is definitely being take care of. I wonder what Edward will be like when I return, what I can expect to find. I wonder how long it'll be before I'll give in to my longing for him again, offer him a brief sign of my acquiescence. All it will take is a bat of my lashes or a flash of my thighs and he'll know that I'm ready to give a little bit. He'll take me to his bed and show me the green of his eyes as he moves over me, always so grateful to take it.

But I can't help but feel as though something is off. Edward's phone call was disconcerting, and I'm equal parts anticipative and dreadful of returning to him, of finding what changed his black to green so quickly.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, Bella is a doormat. I hate her. But I love fixing her even more. =D

Thanks to FuriousKitten for the betatimez.


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